Finger Lickin' Good
by CornishGirl
Summary: Cas looked from one Winchester to the other consideringly, piercing blue eyes expressing significant doubts. "You are not asleep now, at this moment. You are fully clothed, armed, and alert. My understanding is that human males desire to eat any time they are awake."
**Finger Lickin' Good**

* * *

Castiel declared, "I have decided to cook."

"Cook," Sam echoed blankly.

Dean's brows shot up so high they threatened to depart his head. "Cook what?"

"Food," Cas replied.

Sam felt a bubble of laughter arise. "PB & J? Um . . . you don't exactly _cook_ that, Cas."

The angel slid him a glare. An actual _glare_ out of slightly squinted and sideways-slewed eyes. Sam wondered inconsequentially if perhaps Castiel's temporary experience as a human had gifted him with muscle memory, to affect that eloquent an expression.

"No, you don't cook PB & J." Cas's tone was prissily pissy. "You assemble it. I wish to _cook_."

Sam shot his brother a look. They had arrived in answer to an unexpected clanging in the bunker kitchen, guns in hand, because they had been together in the generator room with Dean mired in wiring underneath a massive console as Sam read him instructions. Clanging independent of their own presence meant someone _else_ was in the kitchen, and that spelled enemy.

"Danger, Will Robinson," Dean muttered, tucking gun into his waistband at the small of his back.

Sam, doing the same, wasn't entirely sure if that was in reference to Cas's unexpected presence, or his decision to cook.

" _Why?"_ Dean inquired. "Cas, hey, man, I'm all for trying new things—but cooking? Now? It's—" he lifted a bent arm and glanced at his watch, "one o'clock in the morning."

Cas's puzzled frown suggested he did not grasp the nuances of that declaration. "May one not cook when the desire comes upon him?"

When Dean appeared flummoxed by the enquiry, Sam stepped in. "You don't sleep," he pointed out. "We do. We don't generally start cooking a meal at one in the morning. Usually we're _asleep_ , and therefore not eating."

Cas looked from one Winchester to the other consideringly, piercing blue eyes expressing significant doubts. "You are not asleep now, at this moment. You are fully clothed, armed, and alert. My understanding is that human males desire to eat any time they are awake."

Dean snorted. "Well, when you put it like that . . . and add having sex to it, okay?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Cas, if you really want to cook something now, go for it. I'm pretty certain we'll be awake." Because he, for one, wanted to know what Cas had decided to cook that _wasn't_ PB  & J; and if food was in the offing his brother would definitely hang around.

Because Dean most certainly was a walking/talking human male who desired to eat any time he was awake.

 _And_ have sex.

"You need to moderate," Sam suggested. "You know?"

Dean, who had not been privy to any of Sam's thought processes, stared at him blankly, then knitted brows and pursed his lips in a clear WTF expression as he huffed out a supremely baffled, _"Wha-?"_

"Never mind." Sam looked back to Cas. "Can we ask what you're cooking?"

"No," Castiel answered promptly, "it's a surprise. Go elsewhere, be patient, and wait."

Dean cast a glance at his brother. "Now that . . . _that_ is classic angel-speak. Almost like he's telling us to _seek revelation_. Like a voice from—" Dean made air-quotes, "—On High."

"I am an angel," Cas pointed out. "How I speak is angel-speak because I'm an angel. But I'm not a voice from on high, because the bunker is technically very low."

"Oh, you were plenty 'On High' the first couple of times I heard you," Dean retorted. "Jesus, Cas, I thought you were going to blow out both my eardrums."

"That was unfortunate," Cas noted diffidently, "but rest assured I would have healed your eardrums had they indeed been damaged."

"Well _that's_ good to hear," Dean muttered, then added, "No pun intended."

"Now go," Cas directed. "Food is not a surprise if one is present to see how it is prepared."

"I think it might be a surprise even if we _are_ present," Dean declared. "I mean, you cooking? That's already a surprise."

"Eleven secret ingredients," the angel stated. "There is a precedent."

Sam blinked at him. "Precedent?"

"That is contained within the Colonel's chicken," Cas elaborated. "No one but the company knows what those secret ingredients are. Therefore the food is always a surprise."

Dean disagreed. "No, the Colonel's food is never a surprise. That's the point. Kentucky Fried Chicken and other franchise food is always supposed to the taste the same. That's why it's _franchise_ food. It's reliable. Dependable."

"Reliably and dependably _bad_ ," Sam murmured.

"Hey!" Dean objected. "I don't notice KFC stunted your growth any, sasquatch. Besides, rabbit food causes all kinds of nasty viruses. Salmonella, e. Coli . . ." he waved a hand. "It's in the _organic lettuce_."

Cas said, "There is no lettuce in this. It's not one of the eleven secret ingredients."

"Do we even _have_ the eleven secret ingredients?" Sam asked. "Or are you flapping off somewhere to bring home the bacon?"

"There is no bacon, either," Cas explained, "and yes, the ingredients are present. I made certain before I began. No substitutions. Now—go. This shouldn't take long. Consider it a midnight snack."

"It's after one a.m.," Dean said. "That's past midnight."

"Then call it Fourth Meal," Sam suggested, "like Taco Bell. If we're continuing the conversation about franchise food." He reached out, snagged his brother's collar, pulled him backward. "Come on. Let the man cook. We can work on the console board again. You said it only needed a kiss or two."

Dean said, " _Metaphorically_ speaking, not literally. Since we were just talking about sex."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that." Sam gave him a push, followed him through the door.

* * *

With Dean still under the console, Sam heard little more than mumbling from inside the big unit. "What?"

His brother's raised voice clarified. "I _said_ , we should make a thing out of it."

"A thing out of what?"

"Cas cooking."

"I thought we already did."

" _More_ of a thing. Like, offer true appreciation of his efforts. I mean, how many men have ever had an _angel of the Lord_ cooking for them?"

"Possibly many," Sam observed. "Possibly there's one down the road in that diner you swear by. We can't really know. There could be a whole _franchise_ of angels spread across the country cooking in all kinds of diners."

Silence. Then his brother crawled out from under the unit to fix him with an incredulous stare. "Are you nuts? You think God sends his angels off to be line cooks in restaurants?"

Sam shrugged. "You said the burgers are heavenly."

Dean scowled at him. "Don't just stand there acting so smug and nonchalant. You only think you're being funny. Trust me, that ain't in you, kid. Never was." Dean ducked back down under the console. "'Bout got this mother done."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, that was before you told me to undo what I'd just wasted ten minutes doing. This is why you still can't manage a simple tune-up on the Impala, Sam. Diagrams are not your friend."

"But they're yours?"

"Never met one I couldn't figure out."

Sam smiled, sensing victory. "Diagram a _sentence_ , Dean. I dare you."

Again, silence. Then a raised middle finger appeared at the edge of the console. "Diagram this."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Mature, much?"

The hand disappeared. "So, I still think we ought to do a thing. Make Cas know we appreciate his efforts. Because I'm kind of afraid it's going to taste like crap, or ass, whatever it is he's making."

"Why? You can read a diagram. Probably an angel can read a recipe."

"Come to think of it, you're no better at that."

Sam blinked. "At what? Reading a recipe?"

"Yahtzee."

"I can read a recipe just fine," Sam retorted. "It's that I have no desire to cook what I read."

It sounded like Dean muttered something along the lines of _'No imagination.'_ "You never figured it out, did you?"

"Figured what out?"

"That other _A_ I got in high school."

Sam squinted, closed one eye as he tried to parse where his brother's brain had gone to this time. "Shop and mechanics. You always got an _A_ in shop and mechanics." He intentionally neglected to mention that he himself got an _A_ in everything _other_ than shop and mechanics.

"Nah, this is a different _A_." Sam heard a chuckle. "Shocked the hell out of Dad, that I can tell you. He didn't know whether to congratulate me or inquire after my testosterone levels."

Now Sam was completely confused. "Dean—"

"Cooking." He crawled out from under the console, replaced a panel on the cabinet, then rose. His smirk was in place. "You weren't even in high school yet. It was that semester in Topeka, when Dad took a paying job for a few months. School decided girls should be allowed to take shop if they wanted, and boys had to learn to sew or to cook. Since I already knew how to sew—even if it _was_ stitching skin, not fabric—I took the cooking class." His eyes were alight with humor, clearly pleased to startle his brother. "Where the hell else do you think I learned, Sammy? On the road it was mostly dinner out of cans, sandwiches, fast food and diners . . . but here? I've _cooked_."

Indeed Dean did cook now and then, with impressive results, and Sam was duly appreciative. "I thought maybe it was a couple of girls along the way. You know, they cooked you a meal, or something."

" _Or_ _something_ ," Dean echoed, making it, as usual, a lascivious euphemism. "We were cooking with gas, all right, but it wasn't food. Anyway, since Cas has decided to cook us something, we should be enthusiastic about it. Make it a ballyhoo."

Sam was so startled he only got half the word out. "'Bally . . . '"

"Hoo." Dean bent over the console, started flipping switches to test his work. "Ballyhoo means enthusiastic—"

Sam cut him off. "I know what it means. I'm surprised you do."

"Now, that _was_ a chick," Dean noted, clearly reminiscing. "She explained, after an exciting round in the back of the Impala, that I had treated her to a regular _sexual ballyhoo_." He shrugged. "English major. Anyway, I'm gonna let him know I think his surprise is delicious. Good or bad."

"That's not _precisely_ the correct terminology . . . but never mind." Discussions about linguistics often devolved into insults and too much drinking. "The point is, Cas hates it when you lie."

Dean expelled a noisy huff. "Do you really want to see the look on his face if we tell him it's lousy?"

Sam really did not. "Okay. We'll . . . obfuscate."

"Ob-what?"

"Mislead. Render obscure. But I think—"

What he thought was never stated, because Cas appeared in the doorway. "Dinner is served," he announced, then apparently thought better of it. "Well, _snack_ is served. Or Fourth Meal. Or—"

"Never mind." Dan clapped the angel on the shoulder. "I'm starved, after hanging around under a cramped console trying to repair various system shorts. Sam probably is, too, after misreading diagrams, because that's hard work. C'mon, Sammy. Let's eat."

* * *

Cas had been kind and thoughtful. Two filled bowls sat upon place mats, while soup spoons rested on the right. Folded cloth napkins were set left of the bowls. He'd also poured two tall glasses of water, partnered with uncapped beer bottles. In the center of the table rested a battery-operated camping lantern, glowing dully in dim light.

He was apologetic. "I couldn't find candles."

"That's okay," Dean consoled. "Guys don't usually light candles for other guys." He affected a big, happy grin, rubbed his hands together. "Cas, this is wonderful. Really." He stepped up to a chair, shot his brother a commanding glance. "Three cheers for the chef! Hip hip, hooray! Hip hip—c'mon, Sammy—hooray! _Hip hip—"_

"—hooray," Sam finished dutifully.

Cas was clearly taken aback. "But you haven't eaten it yet. Aren't you supposed to praise the chef _after_ you eat?"

"Why wait?" Dean pulled out his chair. "I'm sure it'll be great. So—soup?"

"Savory and hearty," Cas noted, eyes bright. "I'm not certain about the color, though. I believed it might be brown, rather than gray."

Sam slowly sat down, peered concernedly into his bowl. Indeed, the contents did verge on an unappetizing greenish-gray hue.

"Soup comes in all kinds of colors," Dean declared robustly. "Learned that a long time ago."

Sam attempted to catch his brother's eye across the table to ascertain whether that was true, or an outright lie. If Dean really had taken a cooking class, he should know. Sam did not. He always selected salad when offered a choice. Dean was the soup connoisseur.

Dean's eye was not caught, probably because he was avoiding Sam's attempt. He picked up his spoon, dipped it into the bowl, turned over the contents with a delicate motion of his hand, allowed the aroma to rise, leaned forward with eyes at half-mast as if to partake of ambrosia.

"Don't tell me," Sam said dryly. "They taught you how to fold napkins and arrange the place setting for a formal dinner, too."

Dean quirked a smile. "It's just a diagram, Sam. But you wouldn't understand. You'd probably get the dessert spoons and teaspoons mixed up."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean lifted his filled spoon, let it linger briefly midway between bowl and mouth, then placed it between his lips with an accomplished deftness Sam had never before witnessed in his brother.

Well, except for when he cleaned weapons, worked on the Impala's engine, or stitched wounds. Then he was all kinds of deft.

Sam waited. Prior to inserting spoon into mouth, his brother had assumed one of his almost imperceptible masks. He was prepared to react favorably no matter how bad the soup tasted. But Sam knew how to read all of Dean's masks.

Dean hesitated fractionally, swallowed, considered for a moment, licked his lips, then gazed at the angel, who waited beside the table in a posture of diffidence and an expression equal parts hopeful anticipation, and extreme worry.

"Cas," Dean began, in tones of distinct and honest reverence, face entirely naked of mask, "this is fan-freakin'- _tas_ tic." He shot a glare at his brother, commanding him silently to stop delaying and eat, before turning his attention back to the angel as he spooned up and swallowed another mouthful. "Eleven secret ingredients, huh?"

Cas was clearly pleased by the reception. "Yes."

After swallowing another spoonful and _ummming_ appreciation over it, Dean asked, "Where did you find the recipe?"

"In your father's journal."

Sam coughed and dropped his spoon before it got near the bowl contents. Metal thunked on place mat over wood. "Dad's _journal—?_ Uhhh . . . that's not exactly a _cookbook!_ " He looked at his brother, saw that Dean was frozen over his bowl with the spoon still clutched in his hand, as if in a death-grip.

"No, not written _into_ the journal." Cas sounded annoyed. "That would be dangerous. On the back of a picture tucked into the journal, and therefore safe. Here. I put it in my pocket so you wouldn't see what the ingredients were. I wanted to surprise you. And you—" He fixed Dean with something bordering on a scowl, "—praised it. Did you lie?"

"I told you he'd hate the idea." Sam reached out for the photograph Cas had retrieved from his coat pocket. He looked at the image first. "Huh. You and Dad." He turned it over and read the back. "Oh. _Oh_. Uh . . ."

 _"_ _What?"_ Dean reached to snatch the photo out of Sam's hand. He read the ingredient list penciled onto the back in stricken silence bordering on horror, eyes widening, then dropped the photo, lurched up from the table, and fled the room.

Sam couldn't suppress the spurt of laughter, a single blurted crack of sound. Then he clamped his hand over his mouth.

"What?" Cas asked. "It says _Recipe_ on the picture. Your brother said it was fan-freakin'- _tas_ tic. Why is he running away?"

"Not 'away,'" Sam explained. "To the closest bathroom. Cas—it's not exactly a soup recipe." And when the angel remained puzzled, Sam added, "It's an emetic. Probably for counteracting supernatural poison."

"Oh," Cas said. " _Oh_." Then added, as he looked at Sam's untouched bowl, "Don't eat that."

"No," Sam agreed.

* * *

By the time Dean returned, Cas and Sam had cleared the table, discarded every drop of Cas's soup, washed pot and bowls and Dean's polluted spoon, tucked the photo and its highly effective emetic recipe back into the journal, and set it aside. Now they sat quietly with beer at the ready.

Sam noted his brother's ashen color and that he'd popped a few capillaries in one eye, so that red encroached on green. It was downright—Christmassy.

Dean sat down carefully, shot a blank glance at Cas, lifted a single forefinger into the air and spoke in a bile-scraped tone. "Not a word. None." Then he scooped up the bottle and sucked half down in one massive gulp.

"So," Sam began.

Dean lowered his bottle and blinked at him. That one lurid red-and-green eye was startling in its brilliance. "So?"

Sam downed a swallow of beer, waited a beat, another, then gazed at his brother blandly. "Was it a regular _barfing ballyhoo_?"

* * *

 **~ end ~**

* * *

Courtesy of four prompts from Chrissie0707, Nova42, and Blueriversteel: Words 'nonchalant' and 'ballyhoo,' had to include John's journal, plus the line "I told you he'd hate the idea." Hope you enjoyed!

 _PS: When I first began reading SPN fics, I discovered a marvelous story about Dean taking cooking class in high school. (Or maybe it was elementary school, but I believe it was high school.) I can't for the life of me remember author or title, or I would pay tribute here. It inspired Dean's explanation to Sam in this story for his A in cooking. 8-)_


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